Quhat doe yow call a king that's first and sixt?
Yow call him Gods appointed King; King James;
The King of Ireland, Scotland, and England, mixt;
The King of riuers Shannon, Tay, and Thames.
God blesse the King, the faithfull King who claimes
For Christ the King the English written word,
And lifts the name aboue all other names
VVho is the Lord of euery other lord.
The King of kings, the word that's als a sword
Diuiding soule from spryte as flesh from bone,
Hath made Him selfe with James of one accord,
And plac'd the monarch James upon his throne.
The Booke of James by God is avthoriz'd,
And hath no neede to euer be reviz'd.

Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.

On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.

Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.

Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.

Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.

Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.

Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.

Camila dips a toe into the black
A ring of water sears upon her skin
She knows at once she cannot venture back
until she tames the beast that lurks within
She’s grown familiar with its poison kiss,
The fragile light corrupted by its shade,
Yet if one truth exists, she thinks it this:
Camila’s fought too long to be afraid  
She winces as her knuckles sear and scar
But, trem'bling, she does not cease her descent
She casts her burning eyes into the tar
and spies the beast, head hung and elbows bent,
but startles when the beast cries out in song
Its voice had been Camila’s all along

I'm often asked by friends afar
What was that bright and shining star
That led me to this place of joy
To truly savor this, my rather special toy.

Was it the palm trees swaying in the breeze,
The cheeky Pelicans skimming waves with ease,
Florida's sun beaming brightly morn to dusk,
No need of taking weather Gods to task.

Miles of sand flanking the beach side road,
Reflections of my sportscar sleek and broad,
Cutting the air with startling grace
A glorious rumble heralding its pace.

Heads turning then blinded by the sheen,
A glimpse of Its lustrous body powerful and lean,
What better way to pass a perfect day
So far from all that usual fray.

Harmony and peace can come in many forms,
No need to heed convention, stated norms,
This passion shared by us the few,
Underneath that sky of blinding blue.

that was the most turbulent, gut-eating feeling i have had in the last five years; or maybe, my mind made it so. coming from a stagnant relationship, built through years of falling apart—every possible connection is amplified, feeling anew. or maybe, i was just sad. i let impulse run my mind, i let delusions eat me, i let my heart decide—all of it to end abruptly, in a torrid snap.

"it's fine, it's only been five days," i said, with bitterness and gratitude gritting through my teeth. spare teenage hormones and angst filling the chat. my replies were not rational at all. "maybe we're just sad and ****", you said, quoting my pretentious nonchalant words.

"it's fine, but why did you have to lead me on like that?" and i pressed send, only to find out i was already blocked.

you didn't have to take me out, watch the sunset with me, or even hold my ******* hand, or be the most fictional character to ever grace my life. you didn't have to outdo all of the dates i've ever been to. i was vulnerable, too kind to spend a whole monday with you. you said you were obsessed with me—but dropped me like that hot chicken wing.

"i loved the idea of us", you said, but probably not with me.

Come to me,
Oh look and see,
Please tell me that I don't belong.

To this place,
O' to this world,
To this situation I hath rote.

But negative,
Nay I say,
Tis a situation so grand,
That it can be only sung out in the tongue of yore,
For it is only the most noble of mantles,
Of Fatherhood's door I adorn.

It shall be I,
I be armed with simple tools,
A fresh ***** or bottle,
To assuage my young liege lord's woes,
For betwixt the soggy ure or rancid scitan,
I dread knowing such knowledge,
But my sacred duties of ****** I shan't ignore.

So for now,
Oh humble bards and wanderers,
Listen to this tale no more,
Create such joy and celebration,
For upon this day,
My Firstborn son is born.

These are my modern English translations of ancient Greek poems and epigrams by Sophocles, including antinatalist poems and epigrams.

It’s a hundred times better not be born;
but if we cannot avoid the light,
the path of least harm is swiftly to return
to death’s eternal night!
Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), Oedipus at Colonus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not to have been born is best,
and blessed
beyond the ability of words to express.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Never to be born may be the biggest boon of all.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oblivion: What a boon, to lie unbound by pain!
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How happy the soul who speeds back to the Source,
but crowned with peace is the one who never came.
—a Sophoclean passage from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The happiest life is one empty of thought.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Consider no man happy till he lies dead, free of pain at last.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What is worse than death? When death is desired but denied.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When a man endures nothing but endless miseries, what's the use of hanging on day after day,
edging closer and closer toward death? Anyone who warms his heart with the false glow of flickering hope is a wretch! The noble man should live with honor and die with honor. That's all that can be said.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Children anchor their mothers to life.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How terrible, to see the truth when the truth brings only pain to the seer!
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Wisdom outweighs all the world's wealth.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fortune never favors the faint-hearted.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Wait for evening to appreciate the day's splendor.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We need evening to appreciate the day's attractions.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Evening helps us appreciate the day's attractions.
—Sophocles, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since time dawned
only the dead have experienced peace;
life is snow burning in the sun.
—Nandai, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Sophocles, Greek, translation, translations, English, antinatalist, antinatalism, procreation, contraception, contraceptive, birth, born, death, life and death, day, eve, evening, night, fortune, wisdom, wealth, truth, pain, mother, mothers, mother and child, children